


Second Chances

by All_the_damned_vampires



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, F/M, M/M, Miscommunication, Mistaken Identity, Past Drug Use, Pop Culture, Protest Signs, Religious Themes, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 21:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18484339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_the_damned_vampires/pseuds/All_the_damned_vampires
Summary: On Monday morning Dean sees an angel walk past the windows of his bakery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raths_kitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raths_kitten/gifts).



> Written for Spn Spring Fling. The prompts given to me for raths_kitten were "mistaken identity", "bakery AU" and "amusing protest signs" and I hope I hit all the marks and made them happy with this gift.
> 
> The first chapter was posted to the challenge. I have revised and expanded the story now that I no longer have a word limit. All ideas for the protest signs were taken from an image search on Google, and I applaud the clever people who have enough brain power to get up early to march and to make a clever protest sign.
> 
> Also, this is incredibly off-brand for me. It is sweet and fluffy and nobody is hurt or crying. *shrugs*

On Monday morning Dean sees an angel walk past the windows of his bakery.  

An angel wearing a stained tan trench coat and carrying a battered piece of cardboard. Dean does a double take as the man shuffles by, and recasts the angel of his dreams as a probable homeless person.  A really hot homeless person. The bright blue eyes, sharp blade of a nose, full mouth and tousled dark hair definitely distract Dean from the man’s five-o’clock stubble and the hunch of his shoulders. Hot and Homeless keeps walking and disappears from Dean’s view.

A moment later he’s back, standing before the door of Dean’s cozy (not cramped, thank you) little bakery shop, head tilted to the side like a dog trying to read.  He’s just as cute from the front as he is from the profile view. Dean likes a pretty face. 

The man opens the door, setting the shop bells jangling, and Dean steels his face to broadcast “friendly” and “welcoming”, not “horny” or “pushover.” The man’s cuteness aside, Dean’s had all kinds in his shop and the down-on-their-luck types who want a warm place to sit and sip cheap coffee and the ones that want to shout and smash their fists through the display cases aren’t always easy to identify until the glass and the blood starts flying.

“Hello,” the man says as he steps up to the counter.  His gaze is lucid and direct, the clothes under the trenchcoat rumpled but clean.  Dean re-reassesses the visitor. He clocks the cardboard sign dangling from the man’s hand and blinks.  In bright red letters it declares: “This wouldn’t happen at Hogwarts!”

“What wouldn’t happen at Hogwarts?” Dean asks, smiling.

“Hmm? What’s that?” the man asks. He wears a crumpled blue tie, loose around his throat.  His top button is undone and Dean can see quite a bit of smooth tan skin peeking tantalizingly out of the man’s wilted dress shirt.

Dean gestures to the cardboard sign.

“Oh!” The man stares at the sign as if he’s seeing it for the first time. “This. Yes.  There’s a teacher’s strike. We were marching on the mayor’s office this morning. The new superintendent is trying to cut funding for the arts.”

“Sounds like you have a real Dolores Umbridge on your hands,” Dean quips, chuckling.

The man cocks his head, “Who?”

Dean blinks.  He looks at the sign, then the man, then the sign again.  Finally into the awkward silence, Dean says, “So what can I get you?”

“I’m not sure,” the man hesitates. “I didn’t want to travel too far from downtown, there’s a council meeting in an hour...I see this is a bakery?”

“Yes,” Dean replies.  He can’t help raising an eyebrow. Hot and Not Homeless (apparently) is one strange duck.

“Winchester Bros. Bakery…’feeding people, baking things’...”

“Winchester, that’s me.  Dean Winchester. And my brother.” Although Sam comes and goes like a fickle cat rather than keeping any regular schedule.

“So you wouldn’t have cheeseburgers then?” As if he already knows how inane the question is, the man flushes pink.

“Actually,” Dean gestures to the blackboard menu, the offerings scrawled in chalk marker by Sam’s careful hand.  Dean likes to experiment with new recipes, and while he carries the usual bread and cookies, his speciality is pies. “I have a cheeseburger breakfast pie.  Sounds strange, I know, but I swear by it. It’s delicious.”

“Cheeseburger breakfast pie.” The man swallows, throat bobbing. He digs in his coat pocket for his wallet. “I’ll try it.”

Dean warms a slice of the pie in the oven and brings it over.  After some thought, Dean’s strange customer takes a cup of black coffee as well, sitting at a table near the window.  He shouldn’t be staring like a creeper, but Dean can’t help watching his customer, sneaking glances as he pretends to organize the flatware. Dean averts his gaze when the man bows his head over his folded hands, lips moving silently, eyes closed and lashes fluttering.  Dean’s never been a fan of overly religious types--to each their own--and praying has never done him a damn bit of good. 

Then the man raises a laden fork to his mouth, beef and cheese and egg warm and steaming, and slides it into his mouth.  He moans, loud and lusty enough that Dean drops one of the plates he’s pretending to stack with a clatter.

The man’s cheeks turn red. “Excuse me.  It’s just, this is amazing.”

“Uh, no problem.” Dean says gruffly. He’s glad the counter is waist high. “I like it when people enjoy my food.”

The man devours the hamburger pie, then a slice of salted honey pie, then a sugar cookie.  Dean keeps the coffee coming, and tries not to stare as the man turns Dean’s baking--something he’s always been modestly proud of--into hedonistic feast.  Finally the man pushes away his cup and plate with a sigh. He rests a hand on his belly, and Dean’s not sure where his new customer has put all that food on such a lean, rangy frame.

“Thank you,” he says as he settles up his bill, looking sleepy and relaxed and satisfied, for all the world like a man who’s gone a few athletic rounds in the bedroom. “I needed that.”

“No problem,” Dean says. It’s always been a pleasure to feed people.  He offers a hand. “Dean.”

“I remember. I’m Castiel,” then man replies, shaking Dean’s hand firmly.  Dean feels a zing of electricity. Castiel’s hand is nice like the rest of him, smooth and dry. It’s too bad his name sounds a bit like a sneeze.

“Castiel.”

“Named after an angel.I, uh, had a religious upbringing,” Castiel says simply. He sighs softly and looks into Dean’s eyes with his bright blue gaze. “Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem, Castiel. Cas.”

 

On Tuesday Dean comes in blearily at his usual pre-dawn time to find that Sam has deep-cleaned the ovens, and there’s a huge pile of richly colored apples in a basket on the counter. Largess, Dean gathers, from one of Sam’s many farmer’s market excursions.  He shrugs on his apron and gets to work peeling. Apple pie is one of his favorites--in all its variations--and he sneaks a peek at the menu board to see if Sam has been presumptuous about what Dean will make. He has--there’s a special for two different versions of apple pie--and Dean grins and gets to work baking.

The morning rush has Dean slinging baked goods and cleaning and smiling until his cheeks hurt, nearly run off his feet.  It’s a far cry from the intense bouts of adrenaline/boredom that he experienced in his former career as a firefighter, but he’s pleased to stay busy and keep people fed. It’s well into the afternoon when things finally slow down.  Dean is sweeping up, debating whether to close up a little early, shifting his hips to Zeppelin playing over the speakers. Dean spots a familiar dark head bobbing by the window and smiles.

Castiel.

Dean watches as Castiel studies the bakery sign again, cocks his head, and enters Dean’s shop with a determined step.  He’s in the same grimy trenchcoat and sad suit, but this time he’s carrying a battered briefcase in addition to the cardboard sign in his other hand.  The sign is new, lettered in bright green, and says “Fund Education, You Must” with a well-sketched out cartoon of Yoda looking quite scholarly.

Dean grins as Castiel approaches the counter. The man has a sexy stride that sets his trenchcoat fluttering, a real teen-dream runway walk for all that he must be in his late 30s.  He calls out, “You don’t know the power of the dark side, Master Luke.”

Castiel frowns.  There’s an awkward silence. “Um...okay?”

Well, Dean supposed he should have expected Castiel’s usual bewildered quirkiness. He points to Castiel’s sign. “Star Wars?”

“Oh.  Yes, of course. The cat spilled water on my first sign. I needed a new one.”

“How goes the struggle?” Dean throws a fist up in the air.

“Frustrating.” Castiel frowns. “Research has shown the advantages that come from a rich arts program.  The evidence is undeniable, so I‘m not sure why there is such resistance.”

“Go figure.” Dean doesn’t have much to say about school, not what makes it good or bad or what it should be.  He knows Sam thrived there, but balancing all he had to do at home with his classwork gave Dean perpetual headaches. He did the minimum to ensure he graduated, then never looked back.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Castiel says hesitantly. “I have some students and, well, I’m on strike, but many of them are working on college applications or preparing for exams and I’m not supposed to be teaching, but I suppose it couldn’t do much harm if I was available in an advisory capacity. Would it be acceptable to use your shop as a meeting place of sorts?”

Dean considers the request. He doesn’t keep his shop open much past 3pm, what with the lack of additional staff and the need to rise early to make everything.  Still, he looks at Castiel’s hopeful puppy-dog eyes and feels himself melt a little. It sounds like the right thing to do. And if it keeps Castiel in the shop and under Dean’s appreciative gaze? So much the better.

“Sure.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Anything for the cause.”

“I’ll make sure the students buy at least a little something,” Castiel assures Dean, craning his neck to look at the menu.  He swipes a pink tongue over his full bottom lip. “And I’ll have the apple pie.”

A half hour later Dean’s shop is packed.  There are students at every table, laptops out and books and papers spilled across surfaces, adolescent voices in a low continuous rumble as Castiel’s students discuss assignments.  Dean would like to joke that the minute Castiel opened the ancient laptop in his briefcase he sent out some sort of “bat-signal” to every overachieving student in the area, if he didn’t already suspect he would be met with a blank stare at his “Batman” reference. The origin of Castiel’s pop-culture protest signs is a mystery, as Dean can hear from several of Castiel’s conversations that his student’s references fly over his head as well, much to their delight. Here and there a student will call out “Mr. Novak” and just like that Dean has the last name of his crush.  Not like he’s gonna write it down in a journal or anything, Dean thinks defensively. He can’t stop smiling.

Castiel is well in the thick of it, his voice deep and melodious as he flits from student to student, focus creasing his brow and making him ten times more attractive. Dean can tell the students thrive with Castiel’s attention, his care. Most of them scramble for change to buy a coffee or a cookie, but he can tell none of them have much money.  He sets out a tray of goodies and announces they’re on the house. The students cheer, Castiel flushes pink and Dean smiles at the appreciation. He donates most of the baked goods at the end of the day anyway, and this is for a good cause. 

The place clears around 6pm. Dean goes through his closing routine, rubbing the stiffness out of his spine as he works. Wordlessly, Castiel grabs the broom and begins sweeping.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel murmurs. He moves quick and efficient across the floor. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you did today.”

Dean’s mind traitorously goes to a dirty place, and he bites his lip. Bad Dean, bad. “No problem.  I liked helping out. You seem to know your way around a broom.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Um, the kids seem great.”

Castiel brightens. “Yes. They are very driven and passionate, yet flawed and human. Questioning everything, but open to wisdom. I enjoy my work very much.”

“Did you always want to be a teacher?”

Castiel is quiet for a moment. “Yes and no. I was a youth pastor. Before.  But that was nothing like the teaching I do now. I want my students to ask questions and be curious.  Before, I felt like I was encouraged to stifle any original thought they had.” He shakes himself. “And, you, Dean.  Did you always want to be a baker?”

Dean smiles.  He can’t help puffing his chest out with pride. “I was a firefighter.”

“Really?”

“Childhood dream.  Then I got injured.”

Castiel’s brow creases with concern.

“I could have gone back to it,” Dean says gently. “But while I was recovering my brother got in a bit of trouble and...it’s not anything you want to hear about, but I was off work and taking care of him and baking out of my apartment and...this just sort of happened.  Used my savings to open the shop. And it makes me happy. Feeding people makes me happy. Food makes me happy.”

“Your food makes me very happy, Dean.”

Castiel is standing very close, Dean realizes.  He licks his lips, watches Castiel’s eyes dart down to track the movement of Dean’s tongue, pupils dilating. Dean wants to go for it, to lean in and kiss him, but in that moment between thought and action, Castiel sways slightly back and Dean remembers Castiel’s hands folded in prayer, Castiel’s church background.  He can see the tender unfolding of a real friendship, with a person he admires, and he doesn’t want Castiel to turn cold or turn away.

“It’s late,  I should let you close up,” Castiel says uncertainly.

Dean reaches out and Castiel meets his hand halfway, clasping it firmly. There’s that warm zing of attraction and Dean blinks slowly, enjoying the connection between them, the grasp of Castiel’s long fingers.

“Good night, Cas.”

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand. “Good night, Dean.”


	2. Chapter 2

On Wednesday Dean wakes up with that Christmas morning sensation in his stomach, excitement and the promise of something new.  He’s excited, Dean realizes, because he gets to see Cas again. This person he’s just started to get to know, with his awkward clothes and awkward name, is the very first thing on Dean’s mind and the last when he closes his eyes.

Dean knows he should be careful.  Fools rush in, as the say, and Dean’s had his fair share of a broken heart, has given and gotten pain.  But he can’t tamp down this happy feeling. Even if nothing ever comes from it--and lord knows he’s imagined plenty between Castiel and himself--Dean wants to keep Cas in his life.

In the shop that day it is much the same, only some of the students stay until 8pm.  Beyond the usual school work there is a flurry of protest sign making. There is another march planned for the next day and Dean’s small shop is buzzing with the energy of the righteous young. Dean is bustling about but he keeps one ear out for the rumble of Castiel’s voice, keeps looking up to catch Castiel’s eye and smile at him.  Helplessly smitten, Dean is, and each look, each brush of the hand or reflexive smile, is sending him soaring higher and higher.

As much as he hates to do it, Dean needs to close up for the night.  It’s a time honored trick he’s learned from working a string of jobs to help pay for Sam’s schooling; he dims the lights a bit and then heads to the storage closet to get a broom.  Darker shop plus worker sweeping up generally communicates “time to pack it in” to all but the most densest or inconsiderate of customers.

“Dean--oof!”

Dean spins around, the only thing keeping him from clocking Castiel with the broom is his quick reflexes.  Castiel is standing in the doorway, his shape creating a cool shadow over Dean, the lights behind him bright as a halo.

“Excuse me,” Castiel says softly, but he doesn’t move back.  He’s so close Dean can feel his warmth, smell his soap-and-water scent. “I wanted to see if you needed any help closing up.  You’ve been incredibly generous with your time and your space.”

“No problem,” Dean murmurs, voice husky.  Oh God, his “sexy” voice, the one that Sam has teased him about mercilessly. Dean checks his posture and yes, his elbow is resting on the door frame, his hip cocked forward, chin down so he can gaze directly at Cas.  He’s a walking, talking cliche.

But it seems to be working.

Castiel sways, leans closer.  His eyes are half-mast and locked on Dean’s mouth. Space dissolves between them, until Dean can feel Castiel’s short breaths puffing against his chin.  He can imagine the taste and feel of Castiel’s rich pink mouth.

A crash of a chair falling over and a playful shout.  Castiel jerks away, shoulders hunching. He darts one last look at Dean as he darts out of the closet, his voice rising in volume so that it almost stings the ears, his most authoritative “teacher’s” voice.

Dean sighs, shakes himself.  And yes, fine, adjusts himself a bit before he comes out of the closet.  Wouldn’t do to shock anyone. Their tming might be lousy, but Dean knows he isn’t imagining the attraction between the two of them.  When all the kids clear out, he’s gonna ask for Castiel’s number. When Dean steps out to sweep he catches Castiel’s eye and grins. Castiel grins back.

The kids leave in twos and threes, with Castiel checking in to make sure they have a ride, or bus fare, that they’re traveling safely together, or being picked up by their parents.  Dean cleans methodically, but quickly. If the shop is put to rights maybe he can convince Castiel to come over to his place for a drink.

The last student, an intense girl with a cloud of dark hair Dean thinks is named Kaia, is slowly packing up her backpack. There’s a crumpled sign on the floor and Dean picks it up, then grins.  It says, “I time-traveled for this?” with a small stencil of the Tardis.

“Yours?” Dean asks, although he thinks he already knows the answer.

“Mr. Novak’s,” Kaia says, rolling her eyes. “They’re funny.  Kinda corny.”

“Corny I get,” Dean replies, put the sign on a table. “But I think it’s more funny that Mr. Novak doesn’t seem to understand a single one of the references on his signs.”

“Oh that,” Kaia laughs. “His wife makes all the signs for him.”

Dean looks at her.  His lips feel frozen but he manages to get out, “His wife?”

“Yeah.  She’s fun.  Rides him to school sometimes on her motorcycle. She’s a nurse I guess but I’ve only seen her in a leather jacket.  Totally badass.”

“Totally badass,” Dean repeats.

“Oops. Um, totally cool,” Kaia covers her mouth with her hand, but the shrugs, not too put out at swearing in front of Dean. Lights flash outside as a car pulls up. “Gotta go! Thanks for the cookies, Mr. Winchester!”

She darts out the door as Castiel comes back in, looking flushed and happy.  Dean looks at him. He feels angry and cheated, bubbling with ugly emotion. Castiel seems to register the change in mood.  His bright and open smile fades to something more tentative and wary. Dean mentally shakes himself, then plasters on a smile that is fake as hell.  This hurts, this fucking hurts. But he’s gotta be the bigger person. It’s not like they exchanged rings or anything. Hell, Dean’s only know Castiel a couple days.

Dean wishes Castiel would have thrown out a casual “hey, I have a wife” comment before Dean hitched his heart to something that can never be.

“You finished cleaning up,” Castiel ventures. “I would’ve helped you.  It’s the least I could do after everything you’ve done for me.”

Dean shrugs. “Didn’t take much.”

“Thank you.”

“I was happy to do it.”

“I...we shouldn’t impose on you again.”

“Like I said, I was happy to do it.” Dean softens. “Anytime, really.”

“It’s late,” Castiel says.  He stands awkwardly, swinging his arms, gaze casting around as if looking for something to do.

“Go home,” Dean says gently. “Superheroes need sleep too.”

Castiel snorts. “Hardly a superhero.”

“Don’t kid yourself.  You and those kids are saving the world.  Me? I’m just the guy who sweeps up.”

“You’re so much more than that, Dean.” Castiel says and starts forward, but Dean feels flinch back.  This is where Dean draws the line. You don’t cheat on your partner, and as sure as Dean is of the rising heat between them, he’s never been one to ruin a marriage.  He’s got to cut this off right now, while they both still have their dignity.

“Good night, Cas,” Dean says firmly.

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel answers.  It sounds final.


	3. Chapter 3

On Thursday Dean again wakes up with that Christmas morning feeling, quickly followed by a sinking sense of absolute wretched darkness. It takes a moment for his conscious to catch up, but then he remembers.  He’s exhilarated because he might see Castiel today. He’s depressed because Cas is a married man who in addition to knowing next to nothing about pop culture is also oblivious to flirting. Dean feels like shit and not just due to the lack of sleep.

He drags his exhausted ass out of bed and heads over to the shop. It’s a welcome surprise to find Sam already in the kitchen, prepping. His tan apron is dusted with flour and some emo singer is yammering on the radio in the background.

Dean yawns and takes a look at his baby brother. He’s still too skinny, but his lean cheeks are rosy with health and his long brown hair is clean and swept back under a bandana. His eyes are clear and bright as he smiles at Dean. It’s been six months and it looks like Sam is still clean and determined to stay that way.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Haven’t seen you in a while.” As soon as the words are out of Dean’s mouth he wants to bite them back. He’d gotten use to walking on eggshells, every conversational query take as a bitter accusation, Sam flying high on drugs and a hair-trigger temper.  

But instead of storming out as he might have a few months back, Sam just shrugs. “You’ve been keeping some late hours.”

“All for a good cause.”

Sam smiles. “Yeah, those kids. I peeked in last night. When did you get to bed, midnight?”

Dean opens his mouth to answer and it turns into a yawn.

“So who was the guy who was helping you ‘clean tables’?” Sam’s hands make finger quotes, and he smirks. 

“‘Clean tables’? Sammy, that is a terrible euphemism.” It hurts Dean to see Sam waggle his eyebrows, playful when Castiel is unattainable, but Dean swallows it down.

“Spill.  What’s tall, dark and nerdy’s name?”

“Castiel.”

“Gesundheit.”

“That’s his na—you jerk.”

“You can tell me all about ‘Fahrfegnugen’ later. Why don’t you drag your ass to bed?”

Dean considers it. He is tired. But he knows he’ll just lie there, thinking about Cas and torturing himself.  Even more, Sam is close and well and they’re bantering much like they did before law school stole Sam’s time and heroin stole his soul. He doesn’t want to lose this moment.

“Nah.” Dean rolls up his sleeves. “Let me wash my hands—and change this godawful music—I’ll help you prep. What do you have for us today?”

Sam grins and holds up a pear, ripe and golden. 

“A tartine,” Dean murmurs, rolling up his sleeves.

“You...you sure you’re okay? I mean, beyond the late night.” Sam queries and Dean isn’t, his heart is sore, but that question makes his mood soar.  Sam, no longer oblivious to the needs and the pain of others. Sam, eyes open and aware and heart compassionate.

He has his brother back.

“I’ll tell you over coffee,” Dean says, smiling.

 

On Friday it’s quieter than normal. Dean’s back on his schedule, but it feels strange now. Like something is missing. He didn’t see Castiel at all on Thursday. Dean supposes he could have satisfied his curiosity by checking the internet and see if the teacher’s strike is ongoing, but instead he sets out to create a few batches of double chocolate chip cookies for comfort. The shop is warm and chocolate-scented, a hard rock ballad crooning over the speakers. He’ll box some of these up for Sam to take to his meeting tonight. 

The rumble of a motorcycle has Dean lifting his head from his work.

Outside the glass windows of the shop, a Harley pulls up to the curb.  The woman driving is a stranger, but Dean clocks the black leather, the tousled curls, and the red-lipsticked smirk of the woman and gets the impression that this is the “badass” Kaia mentioned.  Just in case he wasn’t sure, Castiel is riding pillory behind her, coat flapping, legs tucked up awkwardly. He’s clutching a huge protest sign taped to a piece of PVC pipe.

Oh, great. That his crush is married--to someone arguably cooler than Dean--is one thing.  Dean really doesn’t want to meet her and have to smile and pretend that everything is cool. That he’s not affected.

She’d better be treating Cas right.

Castiel clambers off, but the woman doesn’t. She says something, then smiles a wicked grin, reaching out to smack Castiel on the ass.  The motorcycle engine revs and she rides away, disappearing from view.

Well.

The bells on the door ring out as Castiel steps into the shop. 

He’s carrying his sign on a long, slim piece of PVC pipe painted glittery gold. It has a stenciled picture of sparkly high heels and reads, “I could make more money working this pole.”

Dean laughs.

Castiel scowls. “One of my students explained it to me. I didn’t have the time to get another sign that was more appropriate.”

“Man, it’s fine.”

“I can’t think I’m setting a good example for my students.”

“Nothing wrong with stripping. It’s honest work.”

Castiel flushes. “I am not a stripper.”

“Maybe you should make your own signs then. Your wife seems to have a wicked sense of humor.” Yes, Dean said it.  He wants Castiel to know he knows. No more flirting. Dean is drawing the line.

“Ex-wife. And yes, Meg enjoys embarrassing people.”

“Ex-wife?” Dean blinks.

Castiel scuffs a shoe against the floor, then carefully puts the sign down on a table. He looks at Dean, blue gaze direct. “Ex-wife. I’ve been talking to her about you all week.  And she’s been talking to some of my students. And then she told me I was ‘the dumbest dumbass to ever dumb’ and made me that sign for today. Apparently, I’ve been an idiot.”

“She said that?”

“Yes. This sign is my punishment. She said I owe you an apology.”

Dean frowns. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Dean,” Castiel begins, then shakes his head.  He steps forward, and Dean can’t help but move to meet him.  He reaches out and takes Dean’s hand in his, sending a warm and welcome shiver up Dean’s spine. “I like you.”

“I like you, too.”

“That’s what Meg said.  I said, ‘how do you know?’ and she threw her magazine at me.”

“Like a bolt of lightning,” Dean breathes, then blushes. He tries to downplay this zing he feels for Cas. “Or a zap from static electricity from shag carpet. Whatever.”

“I felt it too.”

“And you’re divorced?” Okay, okay, maybe Dean needs it spelled out.  He wants to make sure the field is free and clear, no obstacles in the way to Cas.

“Yes. I suppose it’s hard for people to understand. We both grew up in a very religious community, very small. We didn’t question what we were taught, and we were encouraged to marry when we were just teenagers. I guess they saw something in us—well, it didn’t work out. Not the marriage or our church. We ran away, got divorced, and here we are.”

“You’re still close?”

“Very. But we weren’t right for each other at all.” Castiel smiles and steps closer.

“No?” Dean can smell Castiel’s clean scent, homey and warm.  He feels nearly dizzy from the nearness.

“No. I don’t like girls. Not that way.”

“Mm.”

Castiel says, “Dean. I should have asked for your phone number.”

Dean closes the gap and their mouths press together.  It’s everything Dean imagined, the soft slide of Castiel’s lips against his, the silk of his tongue, their breath mingling, the crispness of the hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck under Dean’s fingers.

“You taste like chocolate,” Castiel murmurs when they comes up for breath.  His eyes flutter open, black pupils blown with desire, the blue just a thin ring.

“I made chocolate chip cookies,” Dean says and Castiel moans.

“My favorite.”

“You can have some. Later.”

“Later?” Castiel asks, eyes still smoky and mouth swollen.

Dean steps past him and locks the shop door, flipping the sign to “closed.”  He turns back to sweep Castiel into his arms, enjoy the warm press of his body, the way he sways into Dean like he doesn’t want an inch between them.

“Later,” Dean says and slants his mouth over Castiel’s plush lips.

 


End file.
